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Why I Write
When I write, I draw on my experiences as a woman with a painful past, a rapturous wife and mother, a world traveler, and a spiritualist. For me, writing is an art form. Like an artist, the work becomes more than I imagined it would be. When I set out to write a story with a particular idea or character in mind, words I cannot claim as my own flow from a magical and mysterious place through me and onto paper. The work takes on a life of its own; it is living art. The process fascinates me, satiates me, and makes my life more meaningful.
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15 For 15 Entries ~ June 2010 #698722 added June 9, 2010 at 9:21pm
Restrictions: None
Train ~ June 9
Maria felt the shudder of her sister’s silent sobs as Francesca’s body pressed against her arm. Mama was speaking to them both, but her voice seemed distant, lost to the din of the busy railway platform. Maria should be listening harder, stowing into the compartments of her mind Mama’s fervent warnings to be careful and her advice for the trip overseas, but she just too excited to concentrate. And besides, Francesca was listening well enough for the both of them.
She turned her head to the right, seeing a man in a patched overcoat shout to a conductor near the platform. Lifting her chin, she looked past his head to a trio of men stood smoking in a circle, laughing boisterously as they bantered. What would people sound like in America? Would she understand them? A half-smile touched the side of her mouth. She would pick up English easily enough. She was a natural. It’d only taken one afternoon to teach herself the one sentence she could say fluently. And besides, surely people spoke Italian in America. So many from their village alone had emigrated already. Her stomach fluttered with excitement for her new life beginning today.
The train whistle blew, and Fransesca’s sobs became audible. Mama pushed her older daughter from an embrace and held her by the shoulders. “Take care of each other,” she pleaded.
Maria picked up her small suitcase with rusted hinges. It was light although all her earthly possessions were packed inside. Mama and Papa wrapped their arms around her shoulders. She closed her eyes and drank in the lavender scent that rose from their freshly laundered church cloths, sacrilegiously donned on a Thursday.
The whistle blew again and steam billowed out from beneath the massive train. Maria turned her bright eyes on her parents and said, in perfect English, “See you soon!”
Mama collapsed into Papa’s arms as the girls disappeared into the train.
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